A Reluctant Courtship

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Honore had been too intent on the timbre of his voice to notice the raindrops pinging against the windows.

  “I will order the carriage to take you home.” She jumped up and dashed for the bellpull.

  “No need. I walked here. I can walk home.”

  “Of course you cannot. Do not be a widg—that is—” She had barely stopped herself from calling the lord of Ashmoor a widgeon.

  She opened the door and told the footman waiting in the hall to have the carriage brought around to the front door to convey his lordship back to Clovelly.

  He had risen with her and now crossed the room to where she stood near the door. “Is it wise for the Bainbridge coach to be seen pulling up to my door?”

  “Probably not, but I will not have you walking in this. Besides . . .” She lowered her voice. “If you are having difficulties with the authorities, they cannot accuse you of anything if you are first in our coach and then at home. I presume others are in your house tonight?”

  “Chilcott hasn’t yet left for the country, and my brother has chosen to stay at home tonight.”

  Miss Morrow’s head snapped up at the mention of the Ashmoor steward.

  Honore smiled. “Perhaps you wish to bring them with you tomorrow?”

  “No, I think—” Ashmoor glanced at Miss Morrow and nodded. “I just may. Chilcott is an intelligent man who knows this area well. He might be of help. Is nine of the clock too early? I know it would be in London, but perhaps you are well used to country hours?”

  “Indeed I am. I like to ride by eight of the clock this time of year, weather permitting. Perhaps you would like to join me sometime.”

  He stiffened. “No, thank you.”

  “You do not ride, my lord?” She tilted her head and let her eyes laugh up at him.

  “Not well. I’ve had little opportunity, other than once with a Devenish party.” Shuddering, he added, “But I can drive a team hitched to a wagon.”

  “An admirable skill for a gentleman.”

  The footman scratched on the door, then opened it. “The coach is here, Miss Bainbridge.”

  “Thank you.” Honore faced his lordship and held out her hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality.” He took her hand.

  She was so used to herself and the gentleman wearing gloves when they shook hands, the touch of his warm fingers on her skin sent a jolt through her. She snatched her hand away and tucked both her hands behind her back as though he would grip them and not let go—surely a foolish notion, as he had already turned away from her and strode from the room. A moment later, the front door opened and closed. Carriage wheels crunched on the drive, then dwindled into the increasing flurry of rain against the windows. And still Honore remained by the door, her hands clasped behind her back, not to hide them from him but to preserve the sensation of warmth that had radiated from his fingers to hers.

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Morrow said from where she now stood in front of the sofa, “should we not have invited him to stay tonight?”

  “Of course we should have. I—I am supposed to persuade him to marry me because I need a husband to make me respectable again and Papa wanted it, and—and—”

  No, she would not say such a foolish thing aloud. She would not believe such a foolish thing. She scarcely knew him. She had made this mistake twice before. She would not make it again. Husband catching was a serious business, a business of the mind, not the heart. She was not even a little bit in love with Lord Ashmoor. No, not a little.

  A great deal.

  13

  “I think,” Meric said to his companions, “I am making a terrible mistake.” He leaned his head against the high back of his chair and closed his eyes. An image of Miss Honore Bainbridge painted itself on the inside of his lids, all golden hair and creamy skin, pink cheeks and pinker lips. She was a minx, dangerous to his reputation in the neighborhood, dangerous to his peace of mind, dangerous to his courtship of Miss Devenish, who was the proper sort of bride.

  “By staying here, I hope?” Philo’s comment came as a welcome interruption to the direction of Meric’s thoughts.

  But he shook his head. “We have to be here. For one thing, returning to America is out of the question right now with the state of the war. For another . . .” He opened his eyes and fixed his brother and then his steward and secretary with a stern glare. “I have to find out who is getting prisoners out of Dartmoor and bringing them north to escape, or I and the rest of us may find ourselves hanged for treason, or whatever they do to punish peers for that crime. I do know that they take away their lands. And too many are depending on me having this land. If I don’t clear Father’s name of those old charges, I will be thought again and again to be the one guilty anytime something goes wrong. I need help.”

  “It seems to be an impossible task, my lord,” Chilcott said. “That is to say, this is a long coastline to find one place where smugglers, or whoever they may be, are carrying men out of the country.”

  “I’d think they’d go south,” Philo added.

  “Which is why they are coming north.” Meric rose and paced to the window, then the wall of bookshelves, before he realized he mirrored Miss Bainbridge’s actions earlier that night.

  How pretty she had looked with her skirt flowing around her, her hair catching the light of the fire and candles to shine like honey in sunshine. In repose, her face was exceptionally pretty with its fine bones and wide blue eyes, flawless skin and mouth—

  He must stop thinking of her mouth. He was starting to court Miss Devenish. Thoughts of Miss Bainbridge—those kinds of thoughts—were disloyal, senseless, frustrating.

  He stalked back to his chair and flung himself upon it. “I have a clue.”

  Philo and Chilcott leaned toward him, faces eager.

  “To Father’s innocence or the traitors?” Philo asked.

  “The latter. Father’s innocence will be far harder to prove, but maybe if I can do this favor for the Crown, they will help with the rest.”

  Philo sat back, mouth grim. “I doubt as much. They didn’t try in ’85. Why should they try now in ’13 when he is gone?”

  “Because I’ve proven my loyalty and asked it of them?” Meric’s query held more hope than certainty.

  Chilcott smiled. “It may be so, my lord. But what is this clue?”

  “It’s on Bainbridge land.” His companions looking at him with blank faces, Meric added, “The clue is on Bainbridge land. A possible link to . . . something. Too little to go on, but something. Someplace to start.”

  “On Bainbridge land?” Chilcott shook his head. “Never.”

  “Why never?” Philo asked.

  “They are too old a family. Bainbridge may only be a barony, but they are one of the oldest baronies in the land. They can trace their ancestors—” Chilcott broke off and grinned. “My apologies. I had to memorize all this as a lad.”

  “And it’s helpful when I’m attending a party full of old names,” Meric said. “But what does it have to do with treason?”

  “The Bainbridges have always been known to be amongst the loyalists to the Crown through civil wars and revolts.” Chilcott’s pleasant face grew long. “Unless Miss Bainbridge’s . . . er . . . propensity for getting herself into ill company has come here—my lord, are you all right?”

  He wasn’t—quite. His head had gone light as though all the blood had drained to his middle and turned to frozen mud.

  Not for a moment, as she had gazed up at him with those summer-sky blue eyes framed by long, gold-tipped lashes, her lips parted as though she were about to speak or be kissed, had he considered that she might be leading him opposite of the direction in which he wished to go. He never considered that her association with less than savory men might have corrupted her loyalty to her family, her kingdom, her faith. Yes, her faith too. Her father had told him she was a good Christian girl, that all his daughters carried a deep faith in the Lord that had influenced him to take his own faith more s
eriously instead of just at church on Sundays. Yet even the best people fell away from their relationship with God. His own conscience pricked over how he had been less than devoted of late, scrambled in his prayer life like eggs beneath a whisk.

  He bowed his face into his hands in hopes of bringing back sense, or at least the blood back to his brainbox. “I don’t think she is disloyal.”

  Yet she had been on the beach the other night when those men had been foundering offshore in the high winds. Signaling them, or there because she was distressed over her brother’s edict, as she claimed she was?

  “Maybe I should avoid her completely,” he continued.

  “I should think,” Chilcott said, “that this is all the more reason why you should stay near her, my lord. If she is guilty of helping, befriending her makes it all that much easier to discover.”

  “You’re rather coldhearted, aren’t you?” Philo gave Chilcott an admiring glance. “Wish I could be so sanguine about pretty females.”

  “I, um, have an interest.” Chilcott’s face turned the color of a particularly bright sunset.

  Meric laughed. “An interest named Miss Morrow?”

  Chilcott’s face darkened to the color of a ripe plum.

  Philo joined in the friendly mirth. “She is a nice lady,” he said. “And so pretty when she smiles.”

  “She has a quiet spirit, a gentle strength . . .” Chilcott shot to his feet and stalked across the room.

  “And you want to ensure she does not get swept into something dangerous,” Meric offered.

  “Yes, my lord.” Chilcott leaned his brow against windowpanes that must be cooling to his fiery face. “She is fiercely loyal to her lady. I-I made the suggestion after church the other week that she find employment other than with a lady not acceptable to county society, and I thought she would bite my head off.”

  “Then maybe her judgment is sound.” As he spoke the words, Meric wanted them to be true.

  “We can only hope.”

  “And stay close,” Philo added, his face eager.

  “And pray,” Meric murmured.

  No one responded for several moments, then Philo asked, “What about Miss Devenish? Will you still be able to court her and keep a watch over Miss Bainbridge?”

  “Of course.” Meric spoke a little too sharply. “The situations are completely different.” He rose. “And if I am to be at Bainbridge at nine o’clock, I had best get to my bed.”

  “Likewise all of us,” Philo said.

  “We are taking the carriage or riding.” Chilcott made it a pronouncement, not a suggestion, as he faced Meric. “You must cease walking about the countryside like a vagabond, my lord. And this rain tonight is only one reason why.”

  “I came home in the Bainbridge carriage, and since I arrived dry, not soaked to the skin, I am inclined to believe you. We will take the carriage. Though I suppose I need to learn to ride better, as that seems expected of a gentleman.”

  “You would be better off learning that at Ashmoor,” Chilcott suggested. “Better horses and terrain. Indeed, my lord, you should spend more time there.”

  “Once I am wed. For now, it is too remote from everything.”

  Especially Miss Bainbridge.

  Discussing the merits of riding on a horse over riding in a carriage, of living in Clovelly over living at Ashmoor, they climbed the narrow staircase to their rooms. Once he was in his chamber, fatigue washed over Meric. Sleep would be easy.

  Except it eluded him. He lay staring at the underside of the canopy, going over every word, every action of Miss Bainbridge’s that night, in an attempt to work out whether she had been telling the truth or playing him for a fool. If she was guilty and knew what he intended, then she would want to keep him close as much as he intended to keep her close.

  He didn’t like the suspicion, the hint of deception. At the same time, with his sights set on marrying a quiet, respectable lady like Miss Devenish, his suspicions against Miss Bainbridge would keep him from having thoughts of her enticing mouth.

  He hoped.

  Honore stood in the opening of her clothespress, dithering over how to dress sensibly enough for going through the dust-layered dower house, yet not look as shabby and unkempt as she had the day before when Lord Ashmoor arrived. A good thing he had stayed for refreshments. He had an image of her in her cream and gold gown to take home with him rather than the ragamuffin in kerchief and faded muslin.

  “Wear the lavender muslin,” Miss Morrow suggested from behind her.

  Honore jumped. “It does not fit me at all well any longer. Parts of me seem to have grown, and the more I tighten my stays here”—she indicated her waist—“the larger things seem to grow here.” She waved her hands in front of her chest. “It is quite, quite mortifying.”

  Miss Morrow laughed. “I expect most young ladies envy you, and gentlemen . . . well, gentlemen should at least pretend they do not notice. If they do not pretend as such, they are not gentlemen, whatever their station.”

  “I have learned that, to my regret.”

  Frobisher and Crawford had looked where they should not have. She had been flattered at the time. What a pickle her vanity had gotten her into. She wanted none of it now.

  “I will wear that black muslin with the grosgrain ribbon trim.” She reached for the gown. “It is more than modest.”

  “And will sadly show every speck of dust. Let us see.” Miss Morrow mused over the selection before them. “This gray with a pretty fichu?”

  “That will need to be washed. No, I will wear the black. If he cannot find me appealing in black, then . . . then . . . well, I’d just as soon err on the side of modesty.”

  She eschewed the apron. If she ruined her gown, so much the better.

  Once dressed, she descended the steps to the morning room, whose cheerful wallpaper, covered with the bright yellow of primroses and yellow and cream striped cushions, reflected sunshine on clear days and tried to substitute for it on cloudy ones. The dower house boasted nothing so welcoming in the morning. In the name of symmetry so popular fifty years earlier, every room on the ground floor was the same size.

  Counting how many mornings she could still enjoy her breakfast in the manor house, she seated herself at the gateleg table before the hearth and lifted her cup to her lips just as Soames entered to inform her Mr. Tuckfield wished to speak to her.

  “I believe the engineer from the mines is here, miss.”

  “In that event, send them in.” She hesitated, wondering for a moment if she should order more cups and coffee, then decided against it. “Take them into the library.”

  Lord Ashmoor could go about with his steward, for the man came from a noble family and acted more as a secretary than an agent to the land. Tuckfield was of common stock and never invited to social events. Who knew from where a man who worked with mines originated.

  She waited until she heard voices pass the morning room, then a few more moments to let them settle in the book room, before she made her way down the hall to the more formal setting. The man took his cue from Mr. Tuckfield, stood, and bowed upon Honore’s arrival.

  “Mr. Polhenny from Truro,” Tuckfield presented the engineer.

  He was a young and handsome man in a simple but well-cut coat. “My pleasure, Miss Bainbridge.” His smile was broad, his Cornish accent broader. “I understand you wish to know how to stop your cliff from falling to bits.”

  “Yes, that is precisely what I would like.” She folded her arms across the high waist of her gown. “Can it be done?”

  “I suspect the ground beneath is riddled with caves, and caves are not so different from the mines. So aye, it can be done in most situations.” He glanced from her to Tuckfield. “But I’ll need to be looking all up and down the cliffs. Is there access to the base?”

  “There is. Mr. Tuckfield can either show you or provide you with someone who will.” She hesitated then said, “Of course, any serious work needing done will have to be approved by my brother, but he w
ill be here in a few days.”

  “He will?” Tuckfield exclaimed. His face reddened. “That is, I am happy to hear this, Miss Bainbridge. I need to hire more men for the harvest, and the cliff problem and all will need his attention. I was just surprised, as I’ve heard nothing.”

  “Saturday or Monday.” Honore nodded to Mr. Polhenny. “Do, please, carry on as you need, and come to me if you have any difficulties you need sorted out before my brother arrives.”

  She left the library and returned to the morning room to find Miss Morrow replacing the neglected coffee with fresh. “We will need to hurry. It is nearly nine of the clock.”

  Indeed, Honore had barely finished the coffee and taken a bite or two of a bread roll before carriage wheels crunched in the drive, heralding new arrivals. She wiped her fingers on a serviette and entered the hall to greet the visitor.

  Visitors. Mr. Chilcott and Mr. Poole accompanied his lordship. They strode into the house, bringing with them the scent of cold autumn air, wood smoke, dried leaves, and the sea. Their gaits were easy, confident, their smiles warm, Lord Ashmoor’s handshake warmer.

  Once again, neither of them wore gloves.

  She tucked her hands beneath her elbows. “Shall we get ourselves started? I am not certain what we can learn, but we can look at where I found that button half and what’s left of the footprints.”

  Miss Morrow brought her a shawl, a paisley one prettier in its blues and greens than was wise for the dirty house. Together, the five of them left through the library’s French windows and across the terrace and gardens. Mr. Poole commented that the greensward beyond the flowerbeds would be perfect for some sort of game. Mr. Chilcott walked beside Miss Morrow with neither of them speaking or looking at one another.

  Lord Ashmoor fell into step beside Honore. “Chilcott tells me that you brought in a mine engineer from Truro to look at the cliff.”